


are we dead, is this really red wine?

by redlight



Series: monsterfuckers inc. [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Dark, F/M, Horror, Surreal horror, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: Allura's been feeling under the weather—or perhaps she's been feeling six feet below the ground.
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron)
Series: monsterfuckers inc. [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1400176
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	are we dead, is this really red wine?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HandmaidenOfHorror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandmaidenOfHorror/gifts).



Allura's been feeling under the weather—or, perhaps, she's been feeling six feet below the ground, if the gray tinge inflicted on her skin and the bruises rising up her neck and collarbones have anything to say about it. Something is wrong with her reflection in the mirror, is the thing. She can move her hand this way and that, her slim fingers trembling in the glass, and they blur and twitch unrightly. Sometimes she blinks and her reflection vanishes. Perhaps her vision just keeps blurring.

She's been feeling under the weather, is the point. Her movements are sluggish, and it took Lance and Keith ringing her over and over in order to wake up in the morning (3 in the afternoon.) Allura whimpered at a sliver of light bursting through the curtain, shut her eyes tight as she answered the phone, to feel concerned voice messages and reminders about a meeting she herself had called, but well—

Her throat rasps with her fragile excuse. Under the weather, below the ground, nausea holding her hostage. 

She had dragged herself to the curtain to close it entirely, though they're wretched and deep pink and pink does not isolate sunlight like she wished it would, but she laid on the floor then, waiting for her heart to stop beating so slowly and her dizzy brain to set itself right.

Allura isn't usually like this. She hardly ever gets sick, is the matter. She holds her stomach, watching her stammering reflection in her bedroom mirror. She shuts her eyes when she starts to vanish again.

See, this isn't right. Allura may have caught a bug, might have fallen ill, a regular type of ill, but bugs buzz in her guts and nervous flutters wrack up against her still-too-slow heart. Perhaps she should call for help—this is a medical affliction, is it not? But Allura lets herself touch the tenderness of her neck, lightly throbbing and dark with puncture bruise.

She sighs and lets the lethargy overtake her. She's too tired to think right now, and maybe she'll look it up later.

* * *

See, the thing is that Allura tends to sleep with her windows open—she's on a third floor with a security system installed by her over protective father, and she only raises it a tiny bit on summer nights, always intending to close it before sleep overtakes her. But she never quite manages to have it shut before her over-stress and overwork catches up to her, and she mummifies herself in paperwork scattered on her bed and her work clothes still clinging uncomfortably to her tired body. 

Allura wakes up now with the cicadas of midnight singing directly in her ear, and she hisses from the soreness of sleeping on the floor, managing to lift herself up.

The window is entirely open, and her neck feels newly mauled now—not the cloying soreness of before, not the distant pain. No, this rips through her, has her whole body shaking from fingertips to elbows to hipbones. 

She tries to reach for her phone. Maybe to call someone? It hurts. Her head spins and spins and spins like someone placed it into a microwave for sixty seconds, water molecules in her matter bouncing off the brittle bone of her braincase. 

Allura isn't tired, despite the stinging that pounds and beats behind her eyes. She is able to shakily lift herself enough to crawl, ears hyperfixating on the open window and the hustling of wind, the scattering of rain drizzle. The cicadas shrieking their death metal. She isn't breathing until she notices she isn't, and then gulps in a deep breath that makes her lungs hurt tremendously.

hello?  
something came up  
help me please

Maybe it's the wrong number to call. Allura scrubs her face and presses her cheek back against the chill hardwood floor. It's absolutely the wrong number to call, absolutely. She hasn't talked to the madman in years.

Lotor texts her back far too quickly. A bleary glance at her alarm clock says it's 3:03am.

Are you at the same address? I'm coming over.

Allura whimpers as her reflection flickers again.

* * *

Lotor hasn't changed a goddamned bit, is the wretched thing. He's carrying a shady duffle bag, his suit is as prim as anything, and he only raises a scarred eyebrow when he catches sight of Allura's death-knuckled grip on the door as she tries to keep from collapsing.

That's the other thing—her vicious vertigo has just been rising higher and higher, tides reaching her eardrums and drowning out her balance. And when she sees Lotor, when she breathes him in—copper scent swirling in the air and knocking Allura dead in the face—well. She's even more nauseous than before.

Lotor takes care to grab her arms as she stumbles, faint.

"What—" Allura tries to slur out, and Lotor is already pressing a thumb to her jugular vein, tracing over bruises. "Stop it—I feel sick—"

"I think you know what this is. I think that's why you called _me_."

"I'm not going to entertain your delusions," Allura forces out. "I just—need _something_."

"Blood?" Lotor drawls, and oh if _only_ Allura could summon the spite to glare at him. "You're a smart girl, Allura, I'm sure you know exactly what this is—"

"Shut up," Allura grits out. "Just—shut up please. I just need to deal with this."

Lotor laughs, and it makes her head spin unbearably. Allura isn't sure why her regret isn't as palatable as it should be in her throat—some small part of her hopes that Lotor will help, will be—more than the two-bit con-man he claims he isn't. She isn't sure why she lets him pull her into his arms, though she whines as her chest presses against his. She whines as he forces his wrist against her mouth.

His blood tastes acrid and sweet. His blood tastes hot, acrid, and sweet. Spills across her teeth like heaven unleashed. Allura can't help the noise that leaves her throat, as flustering and pathetic as it could be. Lotor's other hand flexes around the back of her neck, a steady counterbalance, her tightrope tether.

The change overtakes her like a water droplet drowns an unsuspecting mite. She's pulled in, in, in, drowning in a bubble, and she sips up Lotor's blood like she's craved it all her life.

* * *

"Oh, Allura, honey. Have you come to accept it?"

Allura huffs and brushes her fingers across her bruised lips. Pearly white fangs peek through the delicate skin, and the unnatural pallor to her skin is quite sickening. Her hair has become far too gray in far too short a time—stress, illness, vampirism. Lotor's blood sticks to her tongue and yet she is not allowed to feed.

"You are a despicable madman, Lotor, dear," Allura says primly. "I do wonder if your ego is enjoying this more than you are."

He laughs, brittle and loud. His own bruises have healed quite well. He said that he didn't suffer nearly as much nausea and brutal illness as Allura had. His lips are stained with the blood of a new innocent, but he leans over to kiss her, to share. To tease.

"Was it you?" she murmurs, following his lips as he pulls away. "Did you come into my bedroom just to turn me?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I did, Lulu."

" _Do not— _"__ Allura grumbles, but sighs. "You're an awful vampire hunter, you know. Falling victim to one yourself."

"I know," Lotor says, with a sly grin. He fixes his shirt collar, finger brushing against his puncture wound, long since healed over. "I must admit, the timing was perfect. We'll be lovely together, Allura, aren't you excited?"

"Not particularly," Allura deadpans, but she throws one leg over his and settles into his lap. She's hungry and he's oh-so willing to share all the honey blood he's swallowed down. She isn't quite gutsy enough to do it to anyone else yet.

Lotor grins as he kisses her. Allura's reluctance is beginning to slip away—maybe they'll be lovely together, indeed.


End file.
